


Of Men and Women, Boys or Girls

by InfernalPume



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crossdressing, Dead Parents, Enemies to Friends, First Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Glasgow, Lovers To Enemies, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Well - Freeform, and now has no resemblance to canon, cross dressing as a stepping stone for other revelations, hammy as all fuck, pretty obvious moral taped on at the end to make me feel smart, seriously hammy, when in reality this is just fanficion that spiraled out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfernalPume/pseuds/InfernalPume
Summary: "I didn’t realize I was a man of stories until I knew just how many of them I had. "In which a renowned author Charles Doyle brings a peculiar tale of his childhood to pen and paper.





	

I didn’t realize I was a man of stories until I knew just how many of them I had.

 

At the time it had not seemed like I was recording the daily events of my life like a moving picture camera. It just happened, stored away in the archives of my mind until resurfacing in a college short story class when I was at a loss for ideas. From then on out my memories were a goldmine, funding and furnishing countless literary works I have proudly penned over the course of a successful career.

 

But this is not a story about that, to be honest, I am not sure what kind of story it is. Perhaps it is a memoir, perhaps a coming of age; I am sure a great majority of my readers will think it is a love story, as I did at the time. Perhaps it is all of those things. It _is_ a story of my past, I _did_ consider myself a man by the end, and as one could only assume from my third category, it features my first taste of love. Revolves around it, in fact.

 

When I was about eight years of age, I stood in front of the house of my adolescence for the first time. Father was a man of many promises, not all of them he was able to keep. It had come to be that no reputable places of work would allow him any more chances, and while he had less then a reliable work ethic his devotion to my mother and my sister and I was unbreakable. So we left the prosperity of London’s factories and plants to seek a life in Glasgow’s considerably more affordable streets.

 

The last of our money had been spent on this house and the omnibus ride over, we did not have any more to spend on strong men to move our things. So we had brought very little with us, a pack on our backs each, along with a sole piece of furniture. Dearly departed Grandfather back in London had been a carpenter and given my father and mother a mahogany armoire on their wedding day. It was the only elegant thing any of us had ever owned, what with its delicate carvings and timeless polish. While it would have brought more coin than any other belongings, what remained of my parent’s dignity disallowed them to pawn such a precious memento of my mother’s father.

 

Even as a young boy, I was strong, or at least I must have been, because I recall assisting my father in carrying that priceless family artifact through my new home, and inevitably dropping my end across the topmost step of the stairs. Grandfather’s craftsmanship made the armoire itself as good as iron, but the step had been made of a cheaper stuff and cracked down the middle. My father told me not to fret, that any home is only a home once it has been damaged by its resident, and we had just gotten a head start. Better an easy to avoid step then a window or the boiler, in my mother’s opinion.

 

The pride of a carpenter’s son in law and a lack of funds meant that we could not hire someone to repair it, my father would be fixing it himself. Or at least, that is what he said he was going to do. As it turned out, promises over jobs around the house were just as difficult for him to honor as ones made in the work force, and even while we prospered in this new city the step remained unrepaired for at least a year.

 

The moment we had funds to spare, mother haired a handyman to do it for him. At first he was insulted, but as she insisted, “Things never stay broken. You leave something broken for too long, someone else will just have to do it for you!”

 

This was the first memory that I stored in this new home of Glasgow, and it quickly joined its London brothers in the confines of my mind, only to be revisited years later.

 

The second was of my first time playing in the streets of this strange new city. Though the voices were different, I found that the Scottish children acted similarly to their English counterparts. There were groups of boys, groups of girls, and groups of mostly boys with one or two girls, and every group was determined to prove that they hated everyone else. Be it wars with mud, dung, or fists, children have an odd ability to mimic the behaviors of adults before they are old enough to know what their xenophobic behaviors mean. There were boarders, alliances, betrayals, and treaties, just like between the many nations all crammed into the slums of one city in Great Britain. A child’s first loyalty was to his gang, and his gang had loyalty to the collective gangs of his street, who on odd occasion form an alliance with another street’s gangs when the Gypsies came to town and their children’s gangs had to be taught to respect the locals.

 

Even though I had an accent, it was a _lowly_ accent, and my clothes were worn and dirty enough to make myself an ally to anyone. My allegiance was given immediately to the gang of my neighbor Carter Wilson, his two best friends Ollie and Duncan, and his little sister Lottie.

 

Lottie was the reason I was allowed to join at all. The boys were getting older, reaching the respectable age of eleven, and it just would not _do_ to have an eight-year-old girl following them about. They couldn’t let her join another gang, not while Carter was their leader at least, and inviting someone new to theirs would take weeks of careful negotiation. Naturally it would have been more optimal for them to get a _girl,_ but beggars are rarely choosers, and this meant they could finally be free to go about their manly business in peace.

 

Naturally I did not _want_ to babysit this girl with a messy braid and stains on her stockings, but I understood how these things worked. Do this as a favor to Carter, I might get some superiority with the other boys, something I never had back in London. I did feel a little better when I found that there would be no tea parties or house with my wild friend, but instead _proper_ activities, like slipping frogs into lady’s purses or stealing pies from windows. She even liked playing _fun_ games like cops and robbers, her da was a constable and a well known one at that, the girl practically _worshiped_ him.

 

And perhaps Charlotte Wilson wasn’t _so_ bad, spend every day of your youth in a new city with someone you learn to see the best parts of them. And Lottie had a _lot_ of good parts, really. Over time I stopped minding the fact that I’d never be one of the older boys, just having _someone_ who knew a good dirty joke was enough.

 

When it was finally our turn to take our first steps as adults Carter’s part of the gang had left us to be teenagers, and as his successor I had recruited more boys to take their place. It helped that Lottie was so easy to get along with. Usually being stuck with a girl was a hindrance, but being so fun and wild made other kids like her, even the boys _._ All the other boy-girl gangs had dissolved by now, Lottie was one of the few that hadn’t migrated to a girl gang to talk about hair and dresses. Good. We would need a girl on our side when the first trial of adulthood would come.

 

The summer village dance. A place for men to drink and women to flirt, even the kids would have a taste of maturity on this important night. Going with your parents to later meet up with your gang was acceptable until you were thirteen. Until you were old enough to go with a _date._

All the girls shared this sentiment. They talked amongst themselves, giggling and plotting. They took immense satisfaction in knowing that suddenly the fate of every boy’s masculinity was in their hands. Getting turned down by a girl was the worst humiliation a boy could endure, and they knew this well.

 

Lottie also knew this well, knew that she was even _more_ valuable then the others, even to those outside our gang. As the sole female to be friends with the boys, she was an easy yes. No one had to play stupid mind games or guess the answers with Lottie, she was just like us, _thought_ just like us, liked what we liked. So I, leader of the gang and bumrag that I was, assumed that naturally I had dibs.

 

I did not.

 

“What do you mean ten pents?” I demanded of her before class began the morning of the big night.

 

Lottie smirked and crossed her arms, looking smugly at me like she always did.

 

“What, you think you’re the first to ask me? Peter already did yesterday, and I said I would think about it. Ten pents will make me think a little harder, I would say.”

 

Scowling at her I stomped my foot, “But _I’m_ the leader!” I insisted, “Besides, I’ve known you the longest so I get dibs.”

 

Lottie snorted, “You’re no _leader_ Charlie, last I remember, I had to chase that cat away from the base.”

 

“ _You_ only did it because you got to the cat first,” I said, going red faced, “I would have done it _eventually._ ”

 

“Oh aye,” Lottie teased, “Right after you were done inspecting the back of that dumpster you were hiding behind.”

 

What could I say to _that?_

 

“Ten pents,” Lottie repeated, “But because you’re like family, if someone pays it before you I’ll still go with you for fifteen _.”_

 

That got my attention at least. Grumbling I dug in my pocket and produced the coins.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you Mr. Doyle,” she cooed, slipping the money into her schoolbag.

 

Lottie really was nothing like the other girls, and while I was angry, that was part of what I liked about her. At least exchanging coins did not require any translating or decrypting. In those early days I wished that all girls could make _sense_ like she did.

 

More boys approached Lottie that day, even some from our gang, the traitors. Time was running out, and most of the other girls had been paired up already. To my irritation she gave them the same treatment as she had me, though this time only pretended to consider taking their money. Ultimately she turned them down and skipped away to the horror of the desperate boys she left behind.

 

My dearest childhood companion had gone mad with power.

 

As the day drew to a close I walked with Lottie and Carter back to our street. Carter, having already gone three years to the summer dance as an adult, was past worrying about finding a date. He was at the blissful age where you didn’t need to _go_ with someone, but could instead meet someone there to spend the night with. Granted, it was less blissful considering now _all_ he would do was look for a lass to dance with, but apparently that was what he wanted to do at his mature age. Doubtless, I would learn when I reached that point as well.

 

I was a little wary of Carter. It was a given that if anyone made a move on your little sister without your permission, you had to punch him. That was the rule. This put me in a difficult position. I had _no_ intentions of kissing Charlotte Wilson, and did not want to give her the idea that I did by following standard procedure. But knowing that we were going together might make Carter think that I was just trying to pull a fast one in not telling him. Then he might just punch me anyway, just to be safe. Lottie was taller then me by three inches. Carter by six.

 

Turns out Lottie had me covered, as she always did.

 

“You should have _seen_ them Ma!” she said, pulling out my ten pents upon reaching her doorstep, “Crawling over each other to pay up, even when I raised it to three pounds!”

 

Carter inspected the money while Ma Wilson cocked an eyebrow.

 

“That doesn’t look like three pounds to me,” He said, lazily walking past as if he were too above our childish transactions.

 

“It’s hardly appropriate for a young lady to be asking pay for this sort of thing,” Ma Wilson scolded.

 

“That’s because I’m going with Charlie.” She admitted, “I wasn’t _actually_ going to take up anyone else!”

 

“What?” I asked, astonished, but before I could demand my money back Ma Wilson’s attitude shifted completely.

 

“So you _are_ going with someone,” She clarified.

 

“Aye, but its just _Charlie_ Ma.”

 

Ma Wilson was quick. One had to be to raise a girl like Lottie without going mad.

 

“Arty run a bath!” She called up the stairs, as she held Lottie like a rabid dog.

 

“But I took one this morning!” Lottie exclaimed, astounded by the unfairness of it all.

 

As she was one to do, Lottie kicked and squirmed in Ma Wilson’s arms, but to no avail. Through trying to subdue her daughter’s desperate attempts at freedom, Ma Wilson smiled at me in a way she had never done before. Suddenly the stern woman who shot fear into the heart of even Carter was sweet and patronizing.

 

“You just wait for our Lottie to come back out. It’ll be a few hours.”

 

“A few hours!” Lottie demanded, still trying to be free, “What can you even _do_ to me in a few hours?”

 

The last glimpse of her face I got was her desperately looking to me before the door was shut behind her and her mother. I smirked at her despair. Its what she got for abusing her power and taking my ten pents. I would be wanting those back now, I should think.

 

And so I waited, after my own mother was finished with me, of course. There was not much she could do, however. We could not afford to take anymore baths a day then absolutely necessary, which meant we had even _less_ money to dress me up in fancy clothes. I wore my Sunday clothes, as did my little sister Aggie, and was ready after only thirty minutes.

 

So I stood outside the Wilson residence with my hair combed and shirt neatly buttoned up to the collar for a long while. While boring, it was at least better then having to hold Aggie’s hand all the way to the square, then spend the rest of the night trying to shake her off. Mum had explained to her that I was a young man now and would be escorting a young lady tonight, which had made me snort with amusement.

 

When you are young, you have a hard time understanding that people change. They are who they are. Peter was a backstabbing bumrag, Carter was a benevolent older boy who would often give us young one’s advice despite being above it all, and Lottie was…she was just _Lottie._

 

Some things stick in your head, and despite all the meaningful things that come after. You are reminded of them every now and then by the littlest provocation, either by sentiment or related circumstance. I have three such memories of Charlotte Wilson, the first being the moment she stepped down from her doorstep. I very suddenly stopped seeing her as just a wild girl with messy hair and dirt on her stockings, in that moment I caught he first glimpse of the woman she might someday become.

 

The illusion was quickly shattered when she found my gawking offensive and decided to remind me who she was by twisting my arm.

 

“Don’t you stare, don’t you _dare_ stare at me Charlie Doyle!” she hissed, her cheeks as red as mine likely were from looking at her.

 

“Let go! Let go!” I shouted, “I wasn’t staring, I wasn’t!”

 

“Don’t you think I know I look stupid?” she asked, letting me go and studying me.

 

The polite thing to do was to tell her she looked stupid. It was the kind of thing Charlie would say to Lottie, a ritual as old as our friendship. I had broken it by not making fun of her right off, and that had likely scared her. It scared me, at least.

 

And yet, those words could not come. Despite being the thing that had always been said, it was wrong now. So I said the worst thing I possibly could have.

 

“You look pretty, I guess.”

 

Lottie released me and stepped back, eyes darting away from mine.

 

“Well alright,” she mumbled, “Spose’ you look fine too.”

 

And just like that, everything was different. Walking beside her instead of my family would have been a privilege last year, but now it was dead silent and awkward. This was not how it was supposed to be, or at least, that was what I thought. Yes I knew that _someday_ all boys became men and married girls who became women, but very suddenly it was not just about doing what everyone else was doing. Not what was expected of us, what we had been _warned_ about.

 

I felt like I was the only person in the world who had ever experienced this. Ever looked at a girl and thought she was anything other than my best friend, ever wondered if she had _always_ been like this, and I had just not noticed.

 

“Your Mum took a long time,” I finally said.

 

“It was pure _torture,_ ” Lottie said, “I _never_ want to go through that again, next year we’re telling her that we’re going alone.”

 

“Aye,” I agreed, “Next year we’re staying clear of all that.”

 

‘All that’ was what I just had to tell myself those feelings were. Ma Wilson was intimidating, mad by Lottie’s own description, but obviously a genius at knowing how to turn a dirty little girl into something...else. That was all this was, I thought, Ma Wilson’s intervention. Those were not Lottie’s pink cheeks, not Lottie’s blue dress that so perfectly matched her eyes, not her hair that had been brushed so thoroughly and carefully that it reflected moonlight like gold.

 

Things only got worse when we approached the square. From the looks on the faces of the other boys, I was not the only one to be shocked by Lottie’s transformation. It was not that Lottie was even so much prettier then the other girls, but those girls had _always_ looked like that. Those other girls did not like the shift of attention, boys were dragged away by their arms, leaving me and Lottie alone again. I suppose I should have asked her to dance, or if she wanted to eat anything, the sort of thing that _real_ men said to ladies at a village dance. Looking at the others I saw they were not faring much better then us, just a bunch of groups of two isolated from everyone else.

 

All any of us could really focus on was the playing of the children younger then us. We could not even warn them what was to come. They would not believe us. Like our seniors before us, we had to experience the horrors of our first time out with the opposite sex all our own.

 

The night progressed without much change, ending with me turning Lottie over to her family. While Carter looked smugly at the both of us, I could not help but meet the father’s eye. I never talked much with Lottie’s father. He was always either at work in the streets or asleep, but the mix of sadness and anger I got from his glance made me glad I had avoided him. This was a man who beat criminals over the head on a daily basis, after all.

 

I expected the spell to be broken the next time I saw her. School was out of session; it was time for endless days of play and mischief. Every other year this was when we would get down to our best pranks, our best warfare with the other gangs. But seeing Lottie again was still different. Still strange. We played for that first day, thinking the feelings would die down. They did with the other boys, the other boys punched her shoulder and called her rude names just like always. Lottie seemed past it herself, very loudly and openly proclaiming how it was all a load of blather and how she personally would never be convinced to do it again. Even when she would make a jab at me, I just could not bring myself to retaliate. Any time she even looked at me I wanted to be sick.

 

Over the next days I stopped playing with Lottie and the gang, and so did she. I thought it would be fine, she always preferred to spend time with her Da during the summers anyway.

 

I know now that was a mistake, seeing how that was the summer Mr. Wilson died.

 

Being neighbors, my family was the first to know. Many nights mother consoled Ma Wilson, and father made a point of taking Carter under his wing. The Wilsons became good as family; tragedy has a way of forming such bonds. Everyone wanted to be the first to talk about what a _hero_ Arty Wilson had been, rumor was he had rushed into the heart of the factory fire to save a screaming baby or the like. Maybe that was just a better story, and stories like that make loss easier to swallow and understand. But not for everyone, not for Lottie.

 

That first time I saw her since abandoning her at the beginning of the summer was a shock like the dance had been, but I would have gone to a hundred dances instead of seeing her like this.

 

It is believed by some romantics that despair makes a woman beautiful. Perhaps that is true for some people, but a man who truly loves a woman cannot see her face when she is in pain, only feel her agony as if it were his own. I did notice that she looked older, somehow. At the dance she had been mature, at least for the three seconds she could go without being herself, but now any girlishness was drained from her.

 

Her braids were never messy, and it is difficult to stain stockings that are completely black.

 

Neither she nor Carter went to school for a while. In fact, Carter never came back. Without a man to work there was only so long the family could live off savings, the easiest well paying job was for the King. Of course it made sense that Carter join the army, it was what his father would have done, but in those days I found myself hating him for leaving Lottie behind.

 

I did not know at the time, but Ma Wilson was no help at all. Her mother and a few of her sisters came from her hometown to take care of her and Lottie, which ultimately made things even worse. I would be told later what exactly happened in those walls, but not while it was happening, not by Lottie at least.

 

Three months after summer had ended I saw Lottie in class again. Not knowing how to process death, all of us avoided her, even the girls. It was more then the tight way she wore her hair, or the prim and delicate way she held herself these days. Even the teacher thought that such behavior was wrong, despite being an advocate for Lottie’s maturing since the beginning.

 

The story was soon in the newspapers, and soon relayed to higher ups in the police force after that. Touched by Mr. Wilson’s act of supposed heroism, important looking officers and politicians who would have never looked our way otherwise took the trip to our dirty side of the city. There was to be a big party honoring his time in the service of the law.

 

Naturally it was not the sort of party any of us lowly civilians would be invited to. Just the Wilsons, Lottie and her Ma, would attend.

 

Through my window that night I could see an elegantly done up Lottie stepping down from her door and up into a horse drawn carriage of all things. I had no idea we even _had_ those here.

 

Out of some curiosity for how fancy people lived their lives me and some other boys tried to get a look at the party, hiding behind bushes and marveling at the size of the ladies’ hats. This soon got boring after the doors shut for the night, and one by one the lads lost interest in favor of snowball fights or sledding.

 

I stayed though. I stayed and watched the brightly lit windows and listened to the clinking of glasses and scraping of forks. Though I could not _see_ anything, I knew the ceremony had begun from the sudden silence, then wail of a funeral march. Never mind that Arty had already had a proper funeral with the people who actually knew him, this one was to make all the important people feel included.

 

After about an hour of muffled talking I could barely hear, the sounds of socializing and pleasantries began again. Whatever had transpired was over.

 

About to turn and leave I heard the opening and slamming of a back door, and saw a flash of blue fabric that so well matched a certain pair of eyes. Frowning I followed her, accidentally tripping on the shoes had tossed behind her like some mad princess making her escape before a fairy’s spell was broken. When I finally caught up to her she was collapsed in an allyway, clutching her hand to her chest.

 

I knew she could hear the trudging of my approach, but upon reaching her I had no idea what to say.

 

“This isn’t who I am.” She said in a voice closer to tears then I have ever heard it, “This…this is so…”

 

A gloved hand yanked at the pins in her hair, then at the pearls, which broke and scattered in the snow.

 

“ _Bloody bollocks!”_ she shouted, the profanity not making a lot of sense in context admittedly.

 

I opened my mouth to say something, but then decided to kneel in the snow next to her instead.

 

“I thought…” she murmured, “I thought…if I did everything my gran said…then it would stop…”

 

I had expected an outburst, or some harsh words for her oppressors, but certainly not _that._

 

“What would stop?” I asked, completely baffled.

 

“The…the thoughts…blazes _,_ the _pictures!”_ She was heaving heavy breaths now, the powder on her face melting with sweat and tears. “I can’t…I can’t get it out of my head Charlie. What my house would look like in flames, how _school_ would look in flames. How easy it would be to make the boiler explode just like that factory fire…”

 

“Thoughts?” I repeated, “I would think you’d hate fire.”

 

“Do I?” she asked, full on crying now, “If I do, then why can’t I stop _thinking_ about it? Thinking about starting fires, thinking about burning everything. I lie awake at night just _thinking_ about it, and about how horrible it would be if everything just burned away!”

 

“If you know its horrible then you wont do it, right?” I said, nervously going to touch her shoulder.

 

“I don’t know!” She sobbed, facing me finally her eyes mad with either rage or despair I could not tell, “What if there’s apart of me that _wants_ this? A part of me that _liked_ it that Da died so much that I’d do it myself? Why else would I think about something so horrible all the time?” she hung her head and curled into a ball, “What if I kill someone, what if someone dies because of me…”

 

“You’d never hurt anyone Lottie,” I said, trying to remain steady though I was shaken by it all, “You don’t deserve to feel this way.”

 

“I deserve to die.”

 

The words were so small and weak I almost missed them, but so strong they shook my very heart.

 

Children are cruel, they will find just about anything to harass each other with. Acts of affection especially. It was such an embarrassment to have your mother hug you in public, but no child would _ever_ do such a thing to another out of respect.

 

But in that moment Charlotte Wilson was not a child anymore, had not been for a long time. Even as I held her I felt less like a child, all the silly rights of passage of before had been utterly meaningless. Sitting with her in the snow I knew exactly what kind of man I would become, and the woman I would share my life with.

 

Time passed, it was mostly Lottie who spoke. It began as repeating her family’s words of wisdom, realizing without me having to tell her that it was mostly rubbish. Despair and lack of confidence turned to outrage as she became suddenly aware of how she had been used. Changed against her will. I did not feel the need to speak. I thought too many people had been speaking at Lottie for too long, and now she was finally speaking on her own. Soon we were standing, walking home, her ranting the whole way.

 

I could not help but notice that her deflated hairstyle was wild and unkempt, her cheeks flushed with feelings she had avoided for months, and her dress was torn. She also had no shoes to speak of, her stockinged feet swelling in the freezing cold. We soon managed to make it home, far after her Ma and aunties arrived.

 

Opening the door she was subjected to a wave of their concern, demands of where she had been and how she had ruined such a costly dress. For a moment I could see the darkness of before creeping back into her features, before she gave a very Lottie-like scowl.

 

“Shove it, aunt Maggie.” She spat, before stomping past the astonished woman to her own room.

 

The door was shut in my face before I could see much more, but I could hear the shouting even from my own window late into the night. I stayed up, watching through my curtains until I could see house’s lights go out, and finally there was silence.

 

I do not exactly recall if I managed to sleep or not that night. If not for the repercussions, I would assume what followed next must have had to be a dream it was so mad. All I remember is being shaken awake, and feeling a cold draft from a window I had not opened myself.

 

Even without knowing the intimacies between men and women I had enough sense to never have a girl in my bedroom, or find myself in hers. Until that point, at least. There she was, still in her torn dress, shaking me awake. I might have scolded her since I saw myself as an adult now, even though I had no idea _why_ this was inappropriate. But the look of defiant glee on Lottie’s face was too much to refuse, even if I had known.

 

“I’m not allowed to leave the house, I’m being punished.” Lottie said, as if sharing some grand joke, “Only for school, and they say the constables will be involved if I come home so late again, or they hear from someone else that I’ve been out.”

  
“How did you even get up here?” I asked, “My room’s on the _third floor_.”

 

Lottie rolled her eyes at this.

 

“Never mind _that_ stupid, the point is that they’re trying to _change_ me.” Again that grin, “But this time, I’m not going to let them.”

 

“That’s great Lottie,” I said, “Could you not make this speech tomorrow on the way to school?”

 

“No, because see, I need _your help_ , and we need to figure out if its going to work now.” She stood, “Tomorrow my aunties will tell everyone that I’m being punished, we’ve got to make the disguise _now._ ”

 

At the time I thought I misheard. Now I _wish_ I misheard.

 

“What do you mean disguise?” I asked, getting out of bed to stand with her.

 

“Gran keep saying that I cant do this and that because it isnt what a _lady_ would do,” Lottie said, “So I say, I’m _not_ a bloody lady then! And you know what? Its not enough that I just stay a tomboy, not really. Its more than telling dirty jokes and stealing pies Charlie, I want _more,_ things that a young lady can’t have, so I’m _not_ a lady, see?”

 

Of all the things I expected her to do, opening my wardrobe and pulling out a shirt to press against herself was not it.

 

“Are you _mad?”_ I asked, voice still hushed as Aggie was still sleeping in the next room over.

 

“I was before,” Lottie said, the manic gleam fading for a moment, “I was rotting in my own body, too numb to even feel myself falling to pieces, but tonight I realized that I don’t have to be. That I can keep punching, no matter what.”

 

That seemed like the sort of thing that should have been a catch phrase, but she never said it again. Not as much as the other things, anyway. I contemplated as I looked at her, gripping onto the shirt like a lifeline.

 

“You’ll feel better if we do this?” I asked, causing her to pause.

 

“I need to do _something_ , Charlie,” She said, looking into my face again, “I’m not old enough to leave Ma yet, but I cant just have _nothing_ to look forward to.”

 

With a sigh I nodded.

 

“Well, you’re already taller then most of us, so there’s that,” I said, “I don’t know if my trousers will fit you, but my shirts probably will.”

 

“My aunties have been teaching me to sew,” Lottie added, “I can probably make do with any clothes you give me.”

 

And so the first night I spent a girl in my room was spent dressing her up in my clothes. Not how I might have imagined it if I had the wisdom to imagine such things. I do not know how long she stayed, only that when she again crawled out the window and back to her own room I felt as connected to her as if we really _had_ done something more. It was the same sort of philosophy really, except now we shared something even more intimate, a secret.

 

Seeing her the next day she was definitely more animated, but not in the way she had been as a girl. Lottie was no longer the wild creature of her youth, but neither the cold princess of the past few months. She had become something new entirely, something confident, finally divorced from the expectations of a child’s strict world. When young and unsure you rely on rules and regulations to prove that you are more of an adult than you actually are, but only after actually becoming mature do you realize this is probably the most childish thing you could do. I realize I had made this journey with her, and while I still talked to the lads and she to the girls we were the only people who _really_ knew what it was like to be grown up.

 

After school was done however, that was when she slipped into her trousers and cap to cover her hair, a bit of soot or dirt on her face to finish the job.

 

It was difficult for her at first, she would try too hard to make her voice low, and had no idea how to move as we did. But instead of suspicion our friends preferred to make fun of this ‘Logan’, which was fine by him since he did not care a squick what they thought. ‘He’ only cared that he was free to romp in the open at last, able to joke and swear and spit to his heart’s content. That in itself made him untouchable overtime, even if some of them would mumble he walked like a poofter.

 

It was most difficult when Logan would meet with Aggie or my mum. They after all knew Lottie as if she were their own, but the deception was of such a ridiculous nature that no one suspected a thing. I probably would not have, had I been unaware.

 

I have not spent much time talking about Aggie, it being more important to explain my relation to Lottie foremost. But Aggie has a role to play in this story, perhaps a more vital role than even me. Dear little Aggie was of a quiet nature by no fault of her own. It was hard for her to say the right thing, she would sometimes say nothing at all and just sit in silence. Everyone assumed that was just how she preferred it, that she was a simple girl who wanted to read and knit in her spare time. None of us had any idea how _lonely_ it was, being trapped within yourself. None of us but Lottie.

 

Lottie saw the signs in her, saw herself in the empty way Aggie gazed at her books or stitches. Seeing how her female self was rarely seen outside the house, it was Logan who reached out to my younger sister. Sometimes Logan would not go out to see the lads at all, preferring to stay with Aggie and talk. The change in Aggie was instantaneous, through learning to speak with Logan she was able to be more of a presence with her own friends, slowly but surely coming out of her shell.

 

And that was that, or so I had thought.

 

Again the time came for the summer village dance, again Lottie and I watched our peers struggle and stress over each other. They were still children, where we were adults. I noticed as the day drew closer that Aggie found an excuse to linger in the kitchen, trying to peek behind me whenever I stepped through the front door. Sometimes I was followed by Logan, who Aggie would stare at expectantly. Stupid that we were, neither of us put together what she wanted despite how obvious it was. So Aggie had to resort to desperate measures, almost unthinkable measures.

 

 _She_ asked _him._

 

I knew by the way Lottie came through my window that night completely white faced.

 

“What do I say?” she asked, “I said I would think about it, but Charlie, _what do I do?_ ”

 

It was confusing for me as well. Knowing that your sister is capable of such feelings is a shock to anyone, knowing that she has feelings for a girl you yourself fancy is more so.

 

“I guess I’d rather it be ‘Logan’ then anyone else,” I said, “I mean, she’s so desperate, what if some rotten bovver asks her and she says yes?”

 

Lottie blinked at me.

 

“What, you _want_ me to go with her?”

 

“Better you than some idiot in her own class,” I grumbled, crossing my arms, “Please Lottie, you’re the only one I can trust not to…” I waved a vague hand, “Do anything…”

 

With a sigh Lottie looked away, slumping against my windowsill.

 

“I was planning on going in trousers anyway,” She said, “I suppose it cant be any worse then last year.”

 

I myself did not think to take a girl with me. I knew that there was only one girl it was proper to go with, and she was now taking my sister. If the other boys made fun of me, I would not care a squick. They had to follow the rules of adolescence because they themselves were still children. I had graduated from such nonsense early, I had my adulthood laid out in front of me.

 

And how hilarious it was seeing the other boys faces when Logan had a girl with him, and they actually had _fun._ Unlike everyone else who shuffled their feet and twisted their skirts, Logan had probably decided that not even such an awkward situation would bring him down, make him enjoy himself any less then he deserved. Aggie herself managed to be more open and boisterous then any of the other girls, dancing and laughing as if she were a real grown woman out for a bit of fun.

 

I steered clear of them myself, choosing to stay with my mother and father for the night.

 

“He really is such a thoughtful young man,” Mother said, watching them spin, “You know, if not for Logan I’d doubt our Aggie would every have come out of her shell.”

 

Father grunted, bringing a tankard to his lips.

 

“Apparently the boys talk about him like he’s some kind of fairy boy,” he said, “Does he look like a poof to you?”

 

Mother slapped his arm, “Honestly,” she chided, “Isn’t that just like a man. The boy is _sensitive,_ I think Aggie needs someone like that. I think young Logan is leagues ahead of where you were at this age.”

 

I smirked at their bickering, it was such fun knowing a secret like this. At a certain point I could no longer see Logan and Aggie amongst the dancers, and suspected that the night was drawing to a close. I left the side of my parents to look for them.

 

In the months following Lottie’s charade I had convinced myself that there was no more growing up for me to do. I had reached a point in my life where I knew all the answers, knew how things would work from now on. I had shared my first secret with the girl I intended to marry, and the only factor to consider was waiting until I was old enough to ask.

 

A factor I did _not_ consider was finding that girl kissing my sister behind an abandoned cider cart.

 

I thought that since I had coined the false alias ‘Logan’ that it would be easy for me to handle. In fact, I had proven to be less likely to slip up as Lottie herself, almost landing her in trouble on a few occasions. Maybe I was saving up for when it would _really_ matter if I slipped up, like now.

 

“ _Lottie!”_ I shouted, causing the girls to leap apart. Lottie looked at me completely white faced, opening and closing her mouth while she tried and failed to form words.

 

When a boy kisses your sister without your permission, you have to punch him. That’s the rule. But the rules never said anything about having to punch a girl you love. I thought that I was above rules now, but I punched her anyway. Just to be safe.

 

Lottie staggered as her cap slipped off her head, causing her sandy hair to spill across her shoulders. Aggie cried out, covering her mouth with her hands as she stepped back. With shaky fingers Lottie touched where I had punched her and for a moment our eyes met again.

 

Maybe I should have said something, _she_ should have said something, but instead she grabbed her cap and ran into the dark streets.

 

Explaining things to Aggie was not easy, mostly because she did not _want_ them to be explained. She was silent the entire way home, avoiding mother and father’s gaze. I made up some lie about how she was upset because ‘Logan’ had to leave early, and she was having too much fun. It was the last favor I would to do for my friend for a while, but it at least made it so he was able to walk the streets without being attacked by my father.

 

When we were finally home, the lights out and us in our bedclothes, I waited for Aggie’s knock on my door. When it never came I found I had to rise to the occasion.

 

The last time I had been in Aggie’s bedroom was when it was my bedroom as well, back in London when we were too young and poor for privacy between siblings. It felt strange, when I had last wanted to talk to my sister I could whenever I wanted because her space was my space too. I had not realized how much I had alienated her for these years in Glasgow, or maybe I just said that so I could feel responsible for what happened.

 

Aggie sat in her nightdress clutching her pillow. In the darkness I could see no tears or reddened eyes, but I had assumed they were there. I had assumed she cried because she fell in love with a lie, but when she spoke her voice did not shake or waiver with sobs.

 

“He was so kind to me,” she said quietly, “I thought…I thought that…”

 

“I should have said something,” I said, sitting down on her bed, “Lottie should have said something too.”

 

Aggie was about to tell me something then, something that might have changed everything that happened next. Or maybe the truth would have only made things worse, made me hate Lottie more.

 

“I kissed… _her._ ” Aggie finally said, the words coming out of her mouth as if she was not sure if she should say them.

 

“It doesn’t matter who kissed who,” I assured her, “Because either way, Lottie should have told you.”

 

Aggie nodded and turned away.

 

“I’ll be fine Charlie,” she said, “I just want to go to bed.”

 

I spent more time with Aggie then I had in years that summer. The lads still romped with Logan, now that he had kissed a girl and had the black eye to prove it they practically worshiped him. But even with all their praise Lottie tried to reach out to me, tried to speak to me. I avoided her because I knew that none of them mattered. None of them knew what she was under the cap, none of them ever held her in the snow. I made a good show of pretending I was angry for my sister’s sake, and I think Lottie believed me.

 

Things would continue like this until the Fall, when some fancy doctor moved into a house near the school building. Apparently he wanted to do a study on children and development, and his college was willing to pay the school to allow him an hour with each of us. Though our parents were wary of taking their money at the cost of their children, there was nothing that said any of us would come to any harm in just an hour, and the schoolhouse _did_ need a new bell.

 

When I first sat down with Dr. Fawks I did not know what to expect. For him to undress me, measure my weight, something to do with hormones and little microscopic particles that made the difference between boys and men. But instead he wanted to talk, just talk, about my daily life.

 

So I talked with him, or rather, I answered his questions. He asked me what I did with my spare time, I told him I played with my sister. He asked if I was maybe too old to be playing with my sister, so I said that I was worried about her not having any friends. He asked why I was worried about her not having friends, and saw it on my face when I hesitated.

 

“What is it Mr. Doyle?” he asked, crossing his hands over his knee.

 

“What…is your profession exactly?” I asked, looking into his face.

 

“Child development,” he answered, “Specifically, child’s psychological development.”

 

“Psychological?”

 

“That means that I know a lot about the brain,” he said, “Not just the organ, I know about feelings and thoughts, why people do the things they do. I am trying to write a thesis on a childhood’s impact on adulthood, so I am studying children in their day to day lives.”

 

This caught my attention.

 

“So you think if something weird happens to a kid, it makes them into a weird adult?”

 

“I think the mind is a very complex thing, and while we can draw conclusions from coincidences, yes.”

 

I was presented with something I did not have at my disposal before. _Information._ Here was someone who knew all about strange things people did for strange reasons. He might know a thing or two about dressing up in boys clothing and kissing girls.

 

“Would you know why,” I asked, careful to be vague in my wording, “Someone might do things that are…wrong?”

 

“Depends what you mean by wrong,” Dr. Fawks said, “And who that someone is.”

 

Unable to get what I wanted without spilling to much, I decided to lie even further.

 

“Lets say there’s a boy, and one day he says he wants to wear skirts,” I said, feeling very clever at how easy it was to switch the scenario, “And he tells you he’s only doing it because he wants to sneak into the girls changing rooms or something, but one day you catch him kissing another boy and-“

 

I cannot remember if I was able to finish my explanation, Dr. Fawks reaction was so intense.

 

“Do you know of a young man like this?” He asked, his voice suddenly hard and serious, “It is alright to say his name, you will not be in any trouble.”

 

I was shocked to say the least, suddenly realizing that I had set it up so if I refused to give a name it would look like I was talking about myself.

 

“Why does it matter?” I asked as a stall, “Is it really bad?”

 

“Homosexuality is an incredibly dangerous condition,” he explained, realizing that he might have spooked me, “It is caused by a variety of reasons, traumatic situations, tragedy in the family, sexual or physical abuse, and if left untreated it can fester into a disease of the mind that leads to criminal urges and deviancy.”

 

I stared at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to say.

 

“There are treatments to sedate homosexual feelings early on, if your friend can take medicine to make him into a proper boy again.”

 

I swallowed, feeling my entire throat go dry.

 

“Do girls get it too? Real girls not boys pretending to be girls, can girls be like this too?”

 

At this the doctor laughed.

 

“You’re worried for your little sister,” he said with a smile, “While it can effect women it is by no means an airborne virus, the brain doesn’t work like that lad.”

 

I nodded my head and gave the doctor a made up name, hoping there was no poor sod who actually owned it.

 

Once my hour was up I spent the rest of the day thinking, deciding. It would have been easier to give Dr. Fawks Lottie’s name, so he could take her away and make her right again. But there was part of me that felt responsible for a long time. While it had been Lottie’s idea they were sill my clothes that she wore. But now _neither_ of us were at fault at all.

 

When I found Lottie she was with the boys behind a pub. While the others hooted and harassed the poor lad doing his duties for a swig of whisky, Lottie leaned against the wall mostly silent.

 

Upon seeing me everyone quieted and froze. I had thought that it had been me isolating her, but as I saw the rest of the boys, how one or two of them glanced at Lottie as if for permission to acknowledge me, I realized I was the one who had been exiled.

 

“Logan, we need to talk,” I told him, voice steady, “Alone.”

 

It seemed fairy boy Logan had learned a thing or two from being the leader of a gang of lads, because her expression did not light up at my words. That or her illness was only getting worse. She was turning into more and more of a boy, and I had been so stupid as to leave her to fester.

 

“Alright,” She finally said, pushing away from the wall and sauntering up to me with a swagger that had never existed before. She was running out of time.

 

As we walked away with the eyes of the boys on our backs it was completely silent. Until some younger lad piped up:

 

“Kick his arse Logan!”

 

It was not like we could talk out in the street, so when we were out of earshot of the crowd Lottie lead me to another private nook. Poor neighborhoods like ours were full of them, allyways and broken property that no one had the money to fix.

 

“Lottie, I want to say that I’m sorry,” I said right off the bat.

 

Looking back at me I saw a glimmer of the girl’s face again.

 

“You do?” she asked, then shook her head, “I know, I’m sorry too, but then you wouldn’t _talk_ to me so I couldn’t-“

 

“Not about what happened with Aggie,” I clarified, “That wasn’t your fault, not _really._ I’m not talking about that.”

 

Lottie frowned, “What d’you mean?”

 

“Well, I’m sorry for…what happened with your Da. And I’m sorry for not telling anyone when you first wanted to do all this,” I gestured to her clothes. “But I know what’s wrong now, that doctor told me, you’re _sick_ Lottie, losing your Da made you sick and that’s why you’re doing all these things!”

 

Lottie’s mouth gaped open, I assumed her expression was that of relief.

 

“But the doctor says that there’s special medicine to give you, to turn you back into what you were before!”

 

For someone who was told that she could finally be cured, Lottie looked horrified.

 

“You think…” she said slowly, “You think I’m doing this because I’m loony…?”

 

“You said yourself that you wanted to burn your house down,” I said, “Criminal urges one of the side effects of this, but all you have to do is take some medicine and you’ll get better!”

 

“I…I _don’t_ want to do those things…I _never_ did…” her voice shook, “What, you think because I need a break from Ma’s nagging sometimes I want to kill my family?”

 

“I don’t think that any of this is _you,”_ While I was sure I was doing the right thing, the intensity of her words scared me, “Its just like catching a cold, except its because you were sad. And we can fix it!”

 

“So you don’t think this is who I am?” Lottie demanded, “Maybe wearing the trousers isn’t who I am but the alternative is even _less_. Skirts and hair pins and face powder, none of that was me either! And at least in trousers I get to do things that I _like,_ I’m more myself then I’d be stuck quilting with my gran!”

 

I had nothing to say to that. It is so easy to be persuaded when you’re young and confused, that often you take the first answer you hear. So desperate are you for something to finally make sense, that you cling to it. Even when someone else’s logic can dismember it in a moment.

 

“I’m sorry I kissed your sister,” Lottie said after a long while.

 

It seemed there was more that she wanted to say, but just those words hung in the air until Logan left to return to his friends. I watched him go, unsure now of what to think. Part of me thought I should tell the doctor next time I saw him, but I kept my head down and my secrets to myself.

 

So the doctor left, the snow began to fall, and now it was Lottie who refused to speak to me. Some of the lads socialized with me at school where Logan’s disapproval could not reach them, but it was only ever a word or a joke here and there. Those two months that passed felt like an eternity, I heard word that Carter was coming home for Christmas for the first time since he had left.

 

It was mother who told me before sending me off to the last day of classes before the holy season. She pressed a parcel into my arms, saying she had made a sweater for him last Christmas for good luck, but had not had the time to give it to him while taking care of Mrs. Wilson. I said that I probably would not see him at school, so she told me to leave it with Lottie. Mother had no idea of my issues with Lottie, for all she knew we had drifted apart naturally and the falling out had been between Logan and me.

 

Either way, I was glad to have an excuse to speak to her in a way she could not refuse. I approached her in the hall when it was empty and immediately made it clear that I was not there to chat.

 

“For your bother,” I said, holding out the brown paper lump wrapped in package string.

 

Lottie looked down at the offering and nodded, her fingers brushing mine as she took it from me. Even after all that had happened, everything that we had been through, I still felt my heart shudder upon touching her skin. It had been a full year since I held her to my chest in that allyway, I was unprepared for the rush of sudden feelings that enveloped me.

 

Very suddenly I realized that both of us had something broken. My heart and her ability to trust, neither of us were ready to start picking up the pieces.

 

After taking the present she looked at me, blue eyes fixed on mine. Though she was in her school skirt and her braids hung loosely on either shoulder, I could have sworn that it was Logan looking at me just then.

 

“Merry Christmas, Charlie.” He said.

 

I have three unforgettable memories of Charlotte Willson, this being the second. If I had known these were the last words Lottie Wilson would speak to me, I might have thought of something to say back.

 

When the holidays were over Lottie and Carter were both gone. According to Ma Wilson Carter had secured a place in a reputable finishing school in London. For all the time that we had spent together, all the time spent apart, part of me was actually relieved.

 

Despite her words I knew that something was very wrong with my oldest friend, something that a fancy finishing school probably knew all about. They could probably do much more than I ever could, and when Lottie came back she would be good as new. Then, finally, it would be time for us to be together.

 

Spring came and went, by summer war had begun. I had earned my favor back with the lads enough to hear their talk of enlisting, but knew I would not be joining them. I needed to stay, needed to be there when Lottie came back, no matter what. This was just like one of my sister’s books, Lottie was the scorned heroine, I the romantic lead waiting to forgive her with open arms.

 

I knew that something was horribly wrong by Aggie’s face when I came back from school one day to see her clutching a newspaper. She jumped when she heard me close the front door, and looked at me as if she were holding the evidence to a murder to her chest.

 

“Charlie,” She said with a voice filled with terror, “Charlie, I’ve done something horrid.”

 

My confusion was only added when I saw that the newspaper she held was the kind with photographs between the words. Taking it from her I saw an image of what looked like a group of young men standing at attention having medals pinned to their uniforms.

 

Upon seeing one of their faces my expression dropped, reading the story further my blood went cold.

 

_“Four young on the front lines were awarded today for their bravery in the Battle of Jassin. It seems such heroism is only expected from one of the lads, Logan Wilson, his famed father Arty Wilson having died saving a child from a factory fire just two years ago…”_

There was no way around it. Lottie had not gone to any fancy school to be a fine lady, she had assumed her male alias and gone to fight in the war.

 

“If she gets killed,” I remember saying, “If some German shoots her, it’s because of me.”

 

Looking to Aggie I saw tears fall as she shook her head.

 

“No Charlie,” she sobbed, “No not at all. I _heard_ her sneak into your room that night, the night she decided she wanted to dress like a boy.”

 

It was all I could do to stare at her in astonishment.

 

“I knew Logan was really a girl, but she was just so _kind_ to me, wanted to know me and listen to what I had to say- I _knew_ what she really was but I…I didn’t _care._ I thought…I thought maybe if she spent time with me she wouldn’t care either, that it wouldn’t matter and maybe…” Aggie buried her head in her hands, “…so I kissed her, but I saw how angry you were and…I didn’t want you to hate me like you did her…I’m sorry Charlie…”

 

It was too much, knowing that Lottie was in immediate danger, watching my sister’s tears, it was simply too much to bear. I hid myself in my room, tried to think of something- _anything_ that could be done. I would have to find her, I would have to join the army myself and find her.

 

But I knew I could never do that. I was too young to enlist, and unlike Lottie I was short for my age. Even if I were able to fake my way in, there was no telling that I would even be able to _find_ her in the complex web of the British Royal Army.

 

So I’d go to London then. The troops would doubtless be stopping there every now and then now there was a huge bloody war going on, I could try and contact her when she was next in town and convince her to come home.

 

I had no money, I was fifteen years old and never worked a day in my life. My family had no money, and neither did the Wilsons next door. There was nothing that I could do, no way to _save_ her.

 

Those next months were hell. I worked at a pub and would do just about anything for a few extra pounds. Finally I had enough to stay in London, but for long weeks I waited and combed the docks for her face. I would wait there for a full year, I had to get another job to pay for my hotel in the city, but finally, _finally_ the papers began to suspect the war was drawing to a close, and that all soldiers would be coming home.

 

The celebration welcoming the soldiers home was louder and more grand then I had ever seen. While the crowds were too thick for my to find my lass, I was able to find out the neighborhood where she would be staying. Apparently she had no intention of returning to Glasgow, I had already suspected as much. She would not be coming home until I fixed what I had broken in her.

 

My first glimpse of her was at a pub were soldiers were taking full advantage of the free food and drink that had been offered to them. She was laughing and boasting with the rest of them, I did not feel it would be appropriate to interrupt.

 

So I waited outside in the dark, keeping an eye on both entrances. In the wee hours of the night I finally saw her stumble with another boy out the back entrance, and readied the words I had carefully prepared for her.

 

I had learned so much about myself and love in these past years, especially in these months when desperate to find her. The memories I had become so adept at collecting turned to lessons, lessons turned to experience I could use to make things right at last.

 

But as I saw that boy kiss her when they assumed no one was looking, all those lessons were suddenly useless. It turned out I had remembered all of these lessons and stories, all of them down to the second while forgetting the first. And the first had nothing to do with men and women, boys or girls.

 

Things never stay broken. If you don’t fix them yourself, someone else comes along and does it for you.


End file.
